Inwardly grimaced; there was no point.

Trailing after the footman, she was in time to stop the maid from unpacking Logan’s bag; the scroll-holder was in it. She felt obliged to allow the maid to unpack her gowns and hang them up instead.

When the maid eagerly asked which gown she should leave out for dinner, Linnet arbitrarily picked one of the evening gowns-one in green silk. The question had reminded her that someone needed to order the meal.

She had little experience in choosing menus-Muriel normally handled such matters-but she had the happy thought to consult the maitre d’hotel, and he was both delighted to have been asked and solicitous in arranging an appropriate repast.

That done, she oversaw the disposition of the men’s weapons, then summoned David up to report, confirmed he was unharmed and well-quartered-and insouciantly thrilled by the action-then she settled to pace-only to have a succession of the hotel’s staff tap on the door to offer this, that, and the other.

By the time her three companions walked through the door, she’d been driven to the edge of distraction by the maids’ offers and by an unaccustomed, yet very real, nagging worry-one that evaporated the instant Logan walked in and her eyes confirmed he was unharmed.

That he looked faintly disgusted was neither here nor there.

Dropping into an armchair, Charles explained the disgust. “They’d fled.”

Arms folded, she looked down at him, then at the other two. Then she turned on her heel and headed for her room. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. I’m going to change.”

In these surroundings, even in this company, she felt obliged to play the part of lady, no matter how ill she fitted the role.

The dinner was superb, and served with a smooth, silent efficiency that allowed them to concentrate first on the dishes, then, once the cheese platter arrived and the servers withdrew, on their plans.

“I don’t think there were more than four archers pinning us down out there.” With a tilt of his head, Deverell indicated the front of the hotel. “As there’s bound to be more cultists than that around, I think we can conclude that they reached Bath before us, but then set up ambushes at all the major hotels-there’s not so many of those to cover in Bath.”

Logan nodded. “I think our diversion near Star worked more or less as we’d planned, and by the time they reached here, not knowing we’d been held up, they assumed we were already in residence. Those archers were posted to pick us off if we showed our faces outside. That’s why they were in that position-perfect for when we walked out onto the pavement, but not so ideal when we rolled up in a carriage to go in.”

Charles nodded. “Tomorrow we have an easier day-only about sixty miles in all, along larger, well-surfaced, well-populated roads.” He looked at Logan. “Any insights into what they’re likely to do?”

“This hotel is too solid, too secure, and has too many people in it to attack. They won’t have time to organize anything complicated, like hiring someone local to break into these rooms.” Logan paused, then went on, “I’ve been thinking that our presence here must be causing the cult members stationed in this region some consternation. It’s reasonable to expect that all the cultists in England know by now that three couriers have landed, but there’s one more yet to come. They don’t know where Rafe is going to land, so they have to continue their watch at all the ports. Which means our group currently here-mostly drawn from Bristol-cannot afford to follow us on. They may leave a few to track us-to see where we go and later alert some other group further on, mostly likely much closer to Elveden-but the majority will have to return, might already have returned, to Bristol.”

“That’s a fair assumption,” Deverell said. “It suggests we won’t face an attack tomorrow as we set out.”

Logan considered it. “Only if we try to leave very early, before there are others about. The Bristol contingent might dally long enough to see if we try to set out before dawn again, hoping to mount an attack outside town, but if we leave later, with other travelers around, I can’t see them trying anything.”

Deverell exchanged a glance with Charles. “No need to leave early.”

“Indeed not.” Charles sighed. “Let’s set our departure for midmorning. Say ten o’clock. We’ll still make Oxford by four o’clock at the latest. And while I would prefer to go hunting tonight, to see if we can locate and eliminate the Bristol group, such an act would make it too obvious the paper we’re ferrying is a decoy. We reduce their numbers every chance we get, but we have to wait for them to come to us.”

His tone made it clear that wasn’t his accustomed modus operandi. Deverell, too, grimaced resignedly.

Logan eyed the pair of them and shook his head. “Wolverstone’s orders made it clear we must behave as if I have the original letter.”

“I know.” Charles sighed. “I can see his point, but letting murderous cultists slip away unchastized goes painfully against my grain.”

Logan’s lips twisted wryly. “The cultists won’t use firearms, so we’re safe from that, unless they hire locals, which it’s possible they might do. And if you find yourself facing a cultist with a blade in each hand, he’ll be an assassin, so expect the unexpected. They fight to the death, to win any way they can.”

“Speaking of the unexpected,” Deverell said, “should we set watches?”

Logan hesitated, then nodded. “I’ve learned never to trust logic when it comes to the cult.”

Used to rising before dawn, Linnet claimed the early morning watch, then said her good nights and headed for her room.

Suddenly weary, she stripped, put on the nightgown the attentive-frankly awestruck-little maid had left out for her, then slumped into the bed and tugged the sheets over her shoulder.

She was half asleep when the bed bowed and Logan joined her beneath the piled covers. She’d turned to the side of the bed, her back to him; he slid near, hard and warm, and spooned around her.

Through her slumberous haze, she sensed him looking down at her, studying her face. Then he dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder.

“Are you all right? You seem very… worn out.”

Not physically, yet since he’d returned with the others, Logan had noted a certain underlying tension, a sense that underneath her competent calm, she was irritated, annoyed… bothered over something.

Wrapping one hand over her hip, he leaned closer, brushed his lips across her ear. “I’m sorry if the clashes today bothered you. You can’t have killed that many men before-it can be unsettling.”

She snorted, opened her eyes, and shot him a glare, one he felt even through the shadows. “Don’t be daft. They’re trying to kill us-their deaths are on their heads. That isn’t what’s worn me out.” She narrowed her eyes on his. “And don’t you dare try to leave me out of anything just because you think I’m about to turn into some sort of hysterical female.”

He didn’t; he’d suggested the excuse so he could ask, “What is bothering you, then?”

Her lips thinned. Narrow-eyed, she regarded him, then turned and settled her head back down, facing away. “If you must know, it’s pretending to be a lady that’s driving me demented. Having to watch what I say, what I do, how I behave-and now these sweet innocents have decided I’m some sort of heroine, and I’m not. That’s not me .” She huffed, then in an even lower tone went on, “And on top of that, they all think I’m your wife. Even Charles and Deverell have fallen into the habit of it, so even with them I feel I have to play the role, fit into some mold that’s not me. Frankly, it’s giving me a headache.”

He looked down at her for a long moment. Then he slid down in the bed, laid his head behind hers, slid his arms around her, and gathered her close. Held her. “You don’t understand-you don’t have to change. I don’t want you to change. The woman I want as my wife is the woman you are-Linnet Trevission, captain and all. And the staff here-the lady they now revere is the lady who, without a thought for her own safety, saved one of them. They don’t care what else you are, what other traits you have-it’s what they saw in that instant, the real you, that has stirred their loyalty.” He paused, stared at the back of her head. “You, as you are, inspire loyalty in a lot of people.”

Him included; he hoped she knew that.

She’d left her hair up. With his cheek, he brushed tendrils of flame from her nape and pressed a soft kiss there. “You, as you are, are the perfect wife for me in every way.”

She wriggled, settling deeper within his arms, but all she said was, “Shush. Go to sleep. You have to get up for your watch in two hours.”

Within minutes, she’d relaxed; her breathing slowed, evened out.

He listened to the sound, comforted by it, yet oddly uncertain. A touch uneasy, just a little concerned.

He wasn’t sure what the problem was-not even if there was a problem at all. If she was wrestling with the mantle of being his wife… that was good, wasn’t it?

Sleep claimed him before he could decide.

Fourteen

December 19, 1822

The York House, Bath

At precisely ten o’clock the following morning, Logan followed Linnet out of the hotel, struggling not to grin as the staff, the patriarchal doorman included, bowed, scraped, and positively fawned as if she were royalty.

She’d exchanged her red traveling gown for a severe dark blue carriage gown Penny must have lent her. With her hair up, a red-gold coronet, she looked every inch a reincarnation of the original virgin queen. At times she had an uncannily regal air; he wasn’t sure she even knew it.